


Where Were You

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Atlético Madrid, Champions League, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FC Barcelona, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Kids - Freeform, Real Madrid CF, Team as Family, VfL Wolfsburg, barca fam, eventual, lots of hurting, msn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll come," Leo says to the empty room.</p><p>It's the same thing he repeats to himself, four hours later.</p><p> </p><p>Now translated into Russian by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kotokoshka/pseuds/Kotokoshka">Kotokoshka</a> on <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283807">AO3</a> or <a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/5646085"> ficbook.net</a>.<br/>Now translated into Chinese by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/scyllawen/pseuds/scyllawen">scyllawen</a> on <a href="http://wushifeng826.lofter.com/post/1ef4245b_115a93ef">Lofter</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yulin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Где ты был](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283807) by [Kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kotokoshka/pseuds/Kotokoshka), [Lana_red](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lana_red/pseuds/Lana_red)



> I wanted some hurt/comfort after these past few games. And yulin asked for some consolation fic. So I wrote some for the both of us. First two chapters will be from Leo's pov, and the rest will be from Cristiano's pov.
> 
> Takes place after Real Madrid beats Wolfsburg 3-0 on April 12, 2016 to advance to the semifinals of the Champions League. Cristiano Ronaldo scored all three goals, and Real Madrid moved on with an aggregate score of 3-2.

It's not often they're in the same city.

And it's hard to know that they're so close to each other, without being able to see each other. But Cristiano had texted earlier and promised he'd come to Leo's hotel no matter what happened after the game. He'd promised a lot of things, actually. Sweet things that had made Leo blush, and filthy things that had made him squirm. If Madrid lost against Wolfsburg, Leo would do his best to cheer Cristiano up. And if Madrid won, they'd celebrate together.

So Leo watches with hidden delight as Cristiano scores again and again and again, ignoring the way his friends moan around him. It's not like they expected Real Madrid to crumble completely. They'd just hoped Wolfsburg would somehow hold onto their lead and put up a bit of a fight. It was wishful thinking, and Cristiano shows all his critics exactly why he's one of the best in the world.

In the end, Real Madrid goes through, (Manchester City does, too--beating PSG, which honestly could have gone either way. Leo feels sorry for Zlatan--but only a little!) and those who had been watching click off the tv and start to disperse. None of them are underestimating Atlético, and they know a meal and a good night's sleep is the first step to being prepared.

There's some giggling as Neymar and Geri push by each other, making a break for the elevator. Dani and Marc are right behind them, scuffling and shoving to catch up. The rest of the gang follow at a slower pace, waving and saying goodbye like normal human beings, before following their childish teammates.

"At least Kun went through," murmurs Masche to Leo from across the room, scratching his bald head and then shrugging. He stands and stretches, wincing as one of his shoulders cracks ominously.

Leo grins in response. "Finally!" he laughs. "Now he'll stop blaming us all the time... Unless we knock him out in the next round... Then we'll really never hear the end of it." He slumps back on the couch, tired, but happy. He's just finishing up a text to Kun to congratulate him, when Masche taps his phone against the table.

"Coming?" Masche asks, tilting his head toward the hallway. They'd decided to watch the game downstairs in one of the lounges. Sure, they ran the risk of some fans (or Madrid fans) sneaking last security to get at them, but it was a better place to watch the game with such a large group. Of course, now everyone else is gone except for Leo, so it'll probably be difficult to sneak back to their rooms unnoticed.

"You go ahead," Leo says kindly. Masche's room is next to Leo's, but even if it were on another floor in a different building, he'd probably still want to make sure Leo got back alright. "I'm--I'm--waiting for someone." He ignores the way Masche's face smooths out. "I'm fine here."

Masche sighs. "You know it'll be awhile right? The game only just ended." He looks at his phone and then back at Leo. "I'm sure they won't let him go right away. Come eat with me and then you can come back."

Leo licks his lips. "That's alright," he says softly. "I'm going to wait. He promised he'd come. I'm sure it won't be too long." He looks at Masche. "You know we don't get to see each other that much," he says, trying to get Masche to understand.

Masche arches an eyebrow. "You saw him last week!" 

Leo feels his face get hot, remembering exactly how he and Cristiano had spent their time after el clásico. Cristiano had been keyed up from the win, gloriously happy, and he'd spent hours making Leo happy, too. They'd barely made it home before Cristiano was on him, tearing his clothes off, pressing his lips to every inch of Leo's body...

Leo's pretty sure that Cristiano's hat trick will lead to a similar evening.

Masche coughs, bringing Leo back to the conversation.

"And it wasn't enough," Leo says boldly, knowing his face is flushed and not caring. He remembers the way Cristiano had looked at him before they'd fallen asleep--happy and drowsy and sated, how he'd pulled Leo against him and held him tight... "It'll never be enough, Masche. Don't you see?" 

He bites his lip, feeling a sudden surge of loneliness. 

"I miss him all the time," Leo says quietly. "I go to sleep alone, Masche... You don't know what it's like. You, with your wife and your beautiful daughters." He stops, looking down, knowing he's probably said too much. "He says he loves me, Masche. Won't you be happy for us?" 

It's probably the most Leo has ever revealed about his jealousy. And it's true. Leo's been to Masche's house more times than he can count, and every time, he's watched enviously as Masche has hugged Fernanda, kissed little Lola and Alma, been a husband and a father while Leo's been nothing to nobody.

Leo wants a family. And he wants Cristiano to be part of it.

There's a sigh, and some rolling of the eyes, but Masche laughs. "Of course, Leo." He walks over to the sofa and looks down at Leo, a smile playing around his lips. "I always want you to be happy. You deserve it. Just make sure you get some sleep tonight, hmm?" he says, kissing the top of Leo's head.

Leo feels a burst of warmth spread through his body, and he nods, feels thankful Masche cares about him so much. "I will," he promises. "But I'm going to wait for him here, so he doesn't have trouble getting upstairs."

Masche sighs again, but doesn't protest. "I could wait with you," he offers, hand sliding to Leo's shoulder. His voice echoes a little, bouncing off the walls of the lounge now that it's cleared of people.

Leo shakes his head. "I'm alright," he says, smiling fondly at his friend. "You're tired. Go on, have dinner and go to bed. I'll see you at breakfast." He kicks off his shoes and sits cross legged on the sofa. "Really, Masche. I'm just going to watch some more tv while I wait, or something."

Masche looks torn, but his tiredness catches up with him and he yawns. "Alright then," he says, clapping Leo on the shoulder and heading toward the door. "If it gets too late, and he's still not here, just go up. I'm sure you can see him sometime tomorrow," he instructs. "Goodnight," he tosses over his shoulder, exiting the lounge and pulling the door shut behind him.

"He'll come," Leo says to the empty room. 

It's the same thing he repeats to himself, four hours later. 

Leo's waited, stomach growling, eyelids heavy, energy flagging.

It's been four long hours. He's lost track of how many times he's patiently changed the channel, aimlessly flipping through the hotel's guide in search of something that'll catch his interest. He's watched the highlights from Cristiano's game. And the highlights of Kun's game. And the endless sports news programs discussing who will win the game between Barcelona and Atlético.

Eventually he turns off the tv, tired of it all. 

He texts Cristiano, again, hoping this time he'll get a response. It's the third time he's sent a message. He doesn't want to seem too needy, he's just trying to check in. And he's unsure why his past texts were left unanswered. He doesn't understand.

But this text goes unanswered, too.

He's not stupid, of course. He knows it's not like Cristiano could leave immediately. There would be celebrations in the lockeroom, and then Cristiano would have to shower, and then he would have to do interviews. And Leo doesn't want Cristiano to rush--he wants him to enjoy himself, to be happy and to savor his victory. 

And it's--it's been hours. Cristiano should be finished... He should be here. Leo thought they'd be able to have dinner together, before really celebrating.

Leo doesn't understand.

Cristiano promised he'd come. He *promised*.

It's late now. And Leo should give up and go to bed, like Masche said. But he doesn't. Because he doesn't want to go to bed alone. Not when, for once, there's somebody that's supposed to be with him, somebody supposed to be holding him. And so he stretches out on the couch in the lounge, phone held tightly in his fist in case Cristiano replies--in case this is all a misunderstanding and Cristiano is pulling up to the hotel. 

Any second now, he'll reply.

Leo holds his breath, staring up at the ceiling, willing his phone to chime.

But the phone never makes a noise.

At five hours, and after another unanswered text, Leo gives up on texting and decides to just call. He doesn't like talking on the phone, has always preferred to text (something Cristiano teased him about on numerous occasions), but he really wants to hear Cristiano's voice. In a way, he gets his wish. It rings twice, and is the middle of the third ring when it abruptly goes to voicemail.

Leo swallows hard. 

If he were calling anyone else, he'd assume his call had been sent to voicemail. But Cristiano wouldn't do that. He would take Leo's call. Unless someone else had Cristiano's phone? It hadn't occurred to him until now, but... Leo's distracted as he leaves his message, wondering if Cristiano is okay--if something has happened to him. If maybe, maybe, he'd strained something and they'd had to take him to the hospital. "Please, call me back," Leo ends up whispering before he hangs up.

He stares at his phone, suddenly frantically searching online for any news of Cristiano being injured.

He finds nothing.

Leo smiles faintly, happy for that at least. He takes a deep breath, and then another, a dull ache forming in his stomach. He folds his hands across his chest and shuts his eyes. The ache doesn't disappear, and though he's no longer hungry, Leo wonders if he should eat something.

Finally he loses his smile, so utterly disappointed. 

It hurts. Really hurts. He'd been so looking forward to seeing Cristiano, and he thought Cristiano wanted to see him, too. That's what hurts the most--the idea that the feeling wasn't mutual. But Cristiano had promised... Was it just talk? Or maybe it was just about sex? Here he'd been talking to Masche about family, and Cristiano wasn't even close to being on the same page.

Leo's embarrassed.

He exhales slowly, trying not to get too worked up. For all he knows, maybe Cristiano has a good excuse. Maybe something important held him up, kept him from keeping his promise to Leo. They'll probably have a good laugh about it in the morning.

That's the last thought Leo has, before he drifts off, still stretched out by himself on the couch in the lounge.

Except the next morning, he's not even close to laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

Leo wakes up because the awful, aching feeling in his stomach has intensified into burning, agonizing torture spreading all thoughout his body.

He shudders, spasms wracking his body, scrambling to his feet and somehow running out of the lounge. The elevators are down the hall, and he desperately holds himself up using the wall, knowing he has to make it back to his room before anyone sees him. He's kicking himself for falling asleep downstairs, out in the open like that, without any security. And he's paying for it now, sweating before he's even gone ten feet, clawing at the ugly wallpaper in an effort to stay upright.

When he gets the to the elevator, he smacks at the buttons, frantically urging the doors to open before he vomits from the pain. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a bellboy approaching curiously, so it's with great relief that the doors open just then. He practically falls in, hand glued to his back in an effort to stop the agony, quickly hitting the button for his floor and praying there aren't any stops. 

The last thing he sees before the doors close is the bellboy smirking and pulling out his phone.

Leo groans and rests his head against the side of the elevator wall. The cool metal soothes him momentarily, before another knife in his back makes him grit his teeth. He tries to take deep breaths as the elevator continues to go up, but it's increasingly difficult and he feels bile rising in his throat. All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and wait.

At his floor, Leo lurches out, thanking god there's nobody there to see him stumble. He fumbles for his keycard, practically sobbing when he can't find it. His fingers are clumsy, and he's feeling increasingly faint, pulse racing while he rests his hands on his knees and tries to breathe. Finally, he swings his hand out and bangs on the door next to his.

It takes a minute, but Masche answers.

Leo pushes by him, wavering on his feet, and then shakily makes it into the bathroom. 

He makes it just in time.

"Fuck, Leo," Masche says, hovering as Leo thunks his head on the bathroom tile after he's finished throwing up. "How can I help?" He steps over Leo and flushes the toilet. "What did you eat for breakfast?"

Leo curls up into a ball. "Nothing, not even dinner. It's not that," he says, panting. He presses his hand against his lower back. "I think, shit, I think it's another stone." He wipes his mouth and trembles as more pain shoots through him, unable to sit up. He can hear Masche cursing above him, but Leo isn't able to do anything other than groan. "It hurts, Masche," he whispers, closing his eyes and wrapping an arm around his head.

He stays there, not really paying attention as Masche starts moving around.

When Leo comes back to himself, it's because there are arms hoisting him up. Masche's bathroom becomes rather crowded, as both Luis and Geri grab him on either side and start to lead him out. Leo cringes with every step, gritting his teeth again and trying to hold in his moans as his teammates lead him to Masche's bed.

Lucho's there, and the doctor, too, but they already know the problem. 

Busi and Andrés are there soon after, arms loaded up with juice and water bottles. Leo clenches his teeth as Geri sits next to him on the bed and hands him one. "Start drinking, pulga," Geri says, not unkindly, while Lucho and the captains talk quietly in the corner. Leo blindly reaches for the water, chugging the first bottle down and flinching as the doctor fastens a heating pad around his waist.

There's a bit of a commotion by the door and then Dani's there.

"The bastards are already running with gastroenteritis," Dani reports, waving his phone in the air. "Somebody must have seen him." 

Leo stops drinking long enough to whisper, "the bellboy, downstairs..." He thunks his head back against the wall. "Fuck, I'm sorry." He sucks in a breath as another wave of pain washes over him, fingers tightening on his water bottle. A thought occurs to him and he digs into his pockets. "I must have left my key down there, too," he murmurs, finding only his phone.

"And your shoes," Masche points out, looking down at Leo's socked feet, curiously. 

Luis, standing by the wall, straightens up. "I'll go get them," he says, arms crossed and looking like he needs something to do. "Key and shoes. In the buffet room?"

Leo takes another sip of his water. "No, in the lounge," he says, accepting a handful of painkillers from the doctor. "Where we watched the game last night." He swallows his pills as quickly as he can, chasing them with more of the water and nods at Luis in thanks as the other man heads downstairs. His fingers touch the sheets of the bed, fishing out his phone from where he dropped it.

Masche sits down on the bed once the doctor has gone over to talk to Lucho. 

Leo doesn't look at him, trying to distract himself by seeing if he has any messages. But he doesn't, and seeing his one-sided conversation with Cristiano there makes his heart hurt. He flicks the messaging app closed and opens Facebook. Then he grits his teeth, deciding he'll text Cristiano after all.

Geri eyes him, sensing his mood, but doesn't say anything, arm slung around Leo's shoulders. "In the lounge," Masche repeats quietly, folding his hands and looking down at the aimlessly. "And you didn't eat breakfast. Or dinner." He looks up at Leo, a frown decorating his face. 

"Leo!" Geri scolds quietly, carding a hand through Leo's hair. "Why didn't you eat dinner? That can't be helping any." When Leo only squints his eyes and shakes his head, not wanting to explain, Geri starts making tsk tsk sounds. "You have to take better care of yourself." He continues to cluck his tongue.

"Leo," Masche starts, sighing, and looking unhappy. 

Leo knows that Masche's figured it out. 

That Cristiano never came. 

That Leo waited and waited, hungry and alone, finally falling asleep by himself in the lounge instead of up in his bed.

Leo looks down. **Where were you** he types painstakingly on his phone, the letters dancing before his eyes. He's beyond exhausted and stops writing after only a few words. There's so much more he wants to say, so much he wants to ask... 

But Masche is looking like he's going launch into a rant.

Leo cuts him off beforehand he says anything in front of everyone, taking a few deep breaths while he takes a break from drinking. "Don't, Masche," he pleads, wincing as another pain shoots through him. "Just leave it. Please." He realizes he shaking, and tries to lean more into Geri's embrace. "I can't do this now. I can't." He shuts his phone, tossing it away, not even caring if he gets a reply right now.

Geri looks between them, not understanding, but he tightens his arm around Leo. "Alright, Leo," he says soothingly. "Come on now, just relax. Just keep drinking." His lips brush against Leo's crown, but Leo can't even muster a smile in response, too busy wearily looking at Masche and begging him not to say anything more. "Everything will be okay," Geri murmurs into Leo's hair.

And Leo wants to tell him, wants to blurt it all out--that everything will *not* be okay, that he's unwanted and unloved and not good enough--

The doctor reappears, Lucho next to him, interrupting them. "We should take you to the hospital," the doctor says, looking at the way Leo's trembling. "You know the drill. Get you hooked up to an IV as soon as possible. Quicker way for you to get fluids. And we can inject you with some more efficient painkillers while we're there. Otherwise the pills are all you can have."

Lucho doesn't say anything, and Leo slowly realizes that means his coach doesn't agree.

Leo swallows the lump in his throat. "No," he says, trying to ignore how much he's aching. "Better to stay here, keep it as quiet as possible." 

It's not like it was during the Club World Cup. His team didn't need him then. But they need him now. And if it gets out that Leo's got another stone, he won't be able to play.

The doctor looks like he's going to protest, but Lucho holds up a hand. "Only if you're sure, Leo," Lucho says, lips pressed into a line. "I would never force you to risk your health for the sake of the team." He pauses and tilts his head. "If you need to go to the hospital, then we'll go. You're the only one who can judge your situation. And we'll stand by you no matter what."

Geri and Masche are silent, Andrés and Busi, too. Even Dani, who never shuts up, is standing quiet and motionless next to Luis, who's reappeared with Leo's belongings.

The thing is, Leo isn't sure. 

He knows what they all want him to say--that he'll be fine, that he's feeling better already, that this isn't a big deal. It's not that they want him to lie, they just want all those things to be true.

"I'll stay here," Leo finally says, finishing a water bottle and holding out his hand for new one. Lucho puts it into his hand and nods, while the doctor mumbles something angrily behind them. "I can do this." He starts drinking immediately, glad the nausea has gone away completely. The pain hasn't though, and he stifles a moan. 

Perhaps Geri and Masche hear his sharp intake of breath, but Lucho backs away--satisfied.

The doctor is annoyed, but excuses himself to make some phone calls, promising he'll be back. Neymar pops his head in as the doctor leaves, wedging himself in the doorway. "Um, sorry," he says, eyeing the crowd, "but I think Leo accidentally posted on Facebook?" 

Heads swivel in Leo's direction and Leo blearily tries to think of how he could have managed that. "What did I say?" he wonders out loud, watching as his teammates pull out their phones to look.

Neymar raises an eyebrow. "Don't worry it's nothing bad," he says, smiling. "Just doesn't make much sense." He looks down at his phone and then back up at Leo. "You wrote **where were you**. That's it, just those words." He scratches his head and looks sheepish. "Just thought you ought to know," he says quickly. "Hope you feel better!" 

Then he ducks out.

Leo flushes, mumbling, "Can someone delete that for me?" He gestures where he tossed his phone, refusing to even look in Masche's direction.

But Masche retrieves the phone and deletes the message without a word. When he's finished, he moves the phone from hand to hand, unsure. Finally he sticks it in his own pocket. His hand settles on Leo's knee and squeezes, clearly trying to do the right thing. "I'll hold on to it for you," he says, when Leo looks away--still embarrassed about everything. 

Then Masche stands up and heads for the door. "I'm going to eat, anyone who doesn't need to be here should come with me." He sweeps his eyes over the room, and most people wilt under his gaze.

Geri's stomach growls, but he doesn't move from Leo's side.

"Don't be an idiot," Leo says, because no matter how much he wants Geri to stay, he doesn't want to keep Geri from eating. "Go. I'll be here awhile," he says honestly, desperately wishing he had to pee, but knowing it's not time yet. "You should eat."

"I'll stay," Luis says, coming closer to the bed while everybody else exits the room. He runs a hand though his hair and smiles, baring his teeth. "I ate already, and I can help him up if he needs it." When Geri still looks reluctant, Luis smacks him in the shoulder. "Go on."

Geri sighs, looking slightly annoyed by Luis, but gets up. "I'll be back later sometime to check on you," he promises Leo. He hugs Leo, giving him a light squeeze. "Just try to stay calm, and keep drinking." He looks at Leo fondly before leaving. "Call if you need me."

Luis snorts and takes Geri's place, his bulk another comforting source of warmth against Leo's side. His shoulder is at a better height, too, so Leo immediately takes advantage, resting his head while he continues drinking and tries to forget about the burning pain in his back. 

Luis doesn't talk much, understanding Leo doesn't want to. But he keeps handing Leo new drinks, and when Leo finally grips his arm, signaling that it's time to move, he's quick to heave him up and take him into the bathroom. 

And Luis stays there, letting Leo lean on him, even as Leo pounds at the wall in frustration, desperate to pass the stone and unable to do so. He takes Leo back to the bed and then back to the bathroom the next time Leo wants to try. He doesn't even say anything while Leo screams bloody murder, staying while the doctor reappears and then backs out, happy with Leo's progress.

Eventually, *eventually*, Leo does it. 

After drinking what feels like gallons and gallons of water and juice, the agonizing pain spreads from his lower back to his lower belly, and finally through his entire lower body. Leo passes the stone--the tiniest thing he's ever seen, but by far the most painful thing he's ever felt. He slumps against the wall, skin clammy, utterly exhausted from losing tears and sweat and blood.

Leo's only faintly aware of Luis helping him back to the bed, of a hand wiping away his tears and a cold washcloth cleaning his face.

People are in and out of the room after that, but Leo rests. 

Because, after all of that, he still has a game to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sad Leo. I'm sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

Cristiano can't stop grinning.

There have been times this season where they've doubted him, but when he puts three past Wolfsburg, they're chanting his name like there's no tomorrow.

And Cristiano loves it.

The fans, the crowd, the noise... All of it swells like a giant wave and crashes over him while his teammates jump around him and scream their lungs out. It's glorious, and Cristiano holds his arms out and let's himself be enveloped, unable to remember a time where he was so happy.

The celebration continues into the locker room, and Cristiano sits on the bench and takes it all in.

The truth is, he aches. In good ways and bad--his knee throbbing and reminding him that he should get up and get some ice as soon as possible. There's a twinge in his back, and tension in his shoulders, along with new bruises decorating his ankles. But that's normal for him, now. He's not as young as he used to be (or so everybody keeps reminding him). But all of that pales in comparison to the high he's feeling from the win.

A win. 

No, a comeback. 

And a hat-trick to boot.

Cristiano's face hurts from smiling.

Marcelo comes over and sits next to him, an ice bag taped to his shoulder already. "What a game," he says, taking a few sips of his sports drink. He leans his head back against the lockers and sighs. His eyes travel around the room, pausing to look fondly at where Isco and James are dancing in the corner. "No matter how much he tries, he's never going to be able to move his hips like James," Marcelo says laughing. 

"These Spaniards," Cristiano says, shaking his head. "They try their best, but ehh." He throws his hands up. "Not like you and me, am I right?" 

Marcelo gives him a look. "I've seen your moves. You don't have much room to talk." He ignores the elbow Cristiano throws at him. "I'm talking Colombians, man! Brazilians! You think you're on our level?! We South Americans move like nobody else." He chews on his bottle as Cristiano, now slightly disgruntled, folds his arms across his chest. A mischievous glint enters Marcelo's eyes. "Hell, even Argentineans move better than you. And I'm sure you'd know."

Cristiano's smile reappears.

Because Marcelo is right.

Cristiano licks his lips, remembering the way Leo had swiveled his hips, body flushed, eyes bright as he rode Cristiano after el clásico. He remembers not being able to look away as Leo had writhed atop him, pink lips parted in pleasure, arching as Cristiano palmed those plump cheeks--

Marcelo smacks his shoulder. "I was talking about dancing!" he says, exasperated. "Not whatever it is you're imagining." He laughs, shaking his head and taking another sip of his drink. His gaze travels over to where Sergio is talking to Keylor. "But you seeing him while he's here?" 

Cristiano nods, not ashamed. "Of course. Going to his hotel after this. Hell, maybe I'll tire him out and Barcelona will lose to Atlètico tomorrow." He cracks up, slapping his thigh. "Can you imagine?" He starts laughing, imagining the headlines. 

Beside him, Marcelo rolls his eyes. "Not likely." Sergio waves at him, and he stands up, rolling his shoulders and wincing. "We can hope, though." He clasps Cristiano's hand. "Seriously, I hope you two have a good night. If I don't talk to you again, I'll see you tomorrow." He smiles, walking over to where Sergio is beckoning.

Cristiano slouches, raising his hands up behind his head and surveying his kingdom. 

It's still chaotic--people coming in and out, trays of food being passed around, athletic tape and socks littering the floor--but it's somehow soothing to him. The only annoyance is that Pérez is walking around like he singlehandedly won the game for Real Madrid. The president keeps going and hugging any of the players who are standing, so Cristiano continues to sit. He ignores Pérez completely, watching his teammates celebrate, simply enjoying the atmosphere. He doesn't even have to go get ice, as the trainer appears with some after just a few minutes, making sure that Cristiano is taken care of.

People start clearing out after an hour or so, the annoying suits leaving first, followed by the staff going on their way. Cris only realizes how long he's been sitting there when Pepe appears in front of him fully dressed. "Cris!" he says, tapping his watch. "Get moving. I came to find you. The press are still all waiting for you. And dude, it's crazy out there." 

Cristiano blinks, slowly getting to his feet. He's aching now, having sat so long. Definitely a mistake, he thinks, but he'll loosen up under the hot water. He stretches, nodding in thanks to Pepe, about to ask what Pepe's plans are after this, when his phone buzzes. He holds up a finger and reaches for it, but Zidane chooses that moment to walk by.

"Ronaldo," his coach cautions, "you're keeping the press officer waiting." He doesn't say anything more, but his tone indicates that he's not happy. "If you could hurry, I'm sure he'd really appreciate it." Behind Zidane, Pepe's making a face and pointing at where Zidane's pants are ripped.

Cristiano holds back a smile and gives a little salute. "Sure, Boss," he says, not bothering to wait for a reply, turning on his heel to limp over to the showers. He stops only to grab a handful of turkey roll ups which he stuffs in his mouth as he exits the room. Really, Zidane should be kissing his ass, but Cristiano guesses that Zidane does have a point.

People are waiting for him.

*Leo* is waiting for him.

And it's the thought of Leo that makes Cristiano soap himself up in a hurry. 

Karim and Gareth are there when Cristiano gets out of the shower. He brushes by them, grabbing a few cheese sticks when his stomach growls. He throws them back, chasing them with a bottle of water, before getting dressed as quickly as possible. His fellow forwards seem to sense his mood and let him get dressed in peace. It's not until he's sitting and tying his shoes that Karim addresses him. 

"Coming out with us?" Karim asks, putting on a jacket. He looks at his reflection and then fixes his collar. "A bunch of us are going to go have dinner to celebrate. Most of the team, I think. Club's paying," he says, winking. "Even Gareth's coming."

Cristiano straightens up, running a few fingers through his hair. It's drying quickly, and he squirts out a little gel into his hands, trying to smooth down his curls. "I have other plans," he says, focusing on a strand of hair that isn't cooperating. He hums as his fingers smooth it back repeatedly. "Better plans," he says, smirking.

Karim frowns, but Gareth laughs. "Have fun," he calls after him, as Cristiano grabs his stuff and heads out to face the press.

Cristiano waggles his fingers over his head in response, right before he's seized by the overwhelmed press officer. 

"Start here," the harried man says, pushing him towards a group of microphones and cameras. The man looks at his clipboard. "Madrid press first, then the rest of the Spanish press, followed by the German, and then the international press. Oh god, there are so many for today. I hate the Champions League." He points at a few reporters who are trying to jump the line. "One more step and you're out of here!" he shouts, leaving Cristiano's side to push the trespassers back where they belong.

Cristiano pastes a smile on his face, turning to answer questions. 

He really hates most of these people. 

He's predisposed to hate most cameramen already since they're always invading his privacy, but the reporters are equally as aggravating--twisting and turning every little thing he says into something else. The worst are those who straight out make up lies about Cristiano's relationship with his teammates, or his future plans. 

Really, no matter what he says, he can't win.

He should be used to it, but he's not.

But today, most of the questions are easy ones, about how it feels to have comeback and what it means to still be in the champions league. They don't ask if the reason he passed the ball one way or another means he's had a spat with Karim, or if the reason the the team is going to a French restaurant for dinner is because he's planning on signing with PSG. (Because they really seem stupid enough to ask something like that) 

No, the questions are easy. 

But the answers and the interviews are time consuming.

He has to keep reminding himself to play nice. The need the media on their side more than ever right now.

Some time later along the line, his phone vibrates in his pocket indicating he has another message. But it's in the middle of an interview on camera with a reporter who has always been very respectful and seems genuinely happy to talk about Cristiano's most recent charity project, so Cristiano doesn't pull his phone out. Instead he continues to speak about how important spreading awareness of these issues is and where contributions can be made. He gets a little carried away, but he's passionate about people in need and if any good comes from his words, then all the better. 

The reporter is extremely helpful, saying the right things and pointing out how much time and money Cristiano's dedicated over years to such projects. And so Cristiano spends a little more time than he normally would, answering his other questions and then recording a few short catchphrases and blurbs for the online article that'll be posted tomorrow. It's only when the press officer starts looking like he's going to have an actual breakdown from holding back salivating photographers, that Cristiano says goodbye and moves onto the next section.

And then the next. And the next. And the next.

He loses count.

Eventually he finishes and lets out a huge sigh of relief.

James catches him as he's leaving. "Isn't it amazing?" The boy starts bouncing up and down, still brimming with happiness about the win. "I really can't believe it," he says excitedly. "Don't tell anyone, but I didn't think we could do it. I'm sorry, but I didn't." He looks up at Cristiano, eyes filled with wonder. "But I bet you never doubted us."

Cristiano laughs. "It's normal to have doubts," he says, slinging an arm around James. They stop walking, posing, as the club photographer takes a few shots. "Just don't tell anybody about them," he whispers into James' ear so he isn't overheard. "That's the secret. Trust me on this." He turns away and grins at the camera, knowing James is looking up at him in adoration.

They keep walking, dodging a group of screaming fans, and enter the parking garage. Marcelo spots him right away and comes over. He doesn't look happy. "You aren't going to like this," he says quietly. "Don't lose your temper, there are cameras everywhere, but you have to come to dinner."

Cristiano drops his arm from James. "What the fuck? No, you know I have plans." He tries not to get mad at Marcelo, because he knows that it certainly isn't Marcelo's fault. His hands clench into fists by his side and he forces himself to relax. "I'm not coming."

He's late enough as it as. 

Marcelo leans in. "They said the captains have to, Cris. No excuses." He looks over to where Pérez is talking to Zidane. "You think I want to be partying all night? My shoulder is killing me and I want to go home to my wife." He puts a hand on Cristiano's arm. "They've already told the press we're going. If you don't go, it's going to be a mess. And Pérez is going to be gunning for you even more than he already is."

Cristiano grits his teeth. "So I'll pretend I'm going, and then just go on my way after we're out of sight." He's already plotting a way to lose the paparazzi. He's done it before, and sure it's a little time consuming, but he knows plenty of backstreets in Madrid.

Marcelo shakes his head. "They invited the press to dinner, too, trying to make nice or something," he says, tilting his head towards where Pérez is now shaking hands with a bunch of photographers. Pepe and Sergio are there, too, standing awkwardly while Pérez keeps grabbing them and dragging them into conversation.

Cristiano closes his eyes in frustration.


	4. Chapter 4

Cristiano wakes up the next morning because his phone is ringing. He sighs, eyes still closed, and fumbles around on the bed until he finds it. "Mmm, what?" he asks, not even looking at the name. He doesn't even try to tone down his annoyance. After all, he had a pretty late night, and he hopes that whoever is calling him has a good reason for interrupting his beauty sleep.

It's Marcelo.

"Cris," his friend greets sunnily, somehow always full of energy.

"Ugh, what," Cristiano growls, rolling onto his back and opening his eyes. His drapes are closed, blocking most of the sunlight, but there's a beam of light that's somehow escaped and is now filling the room. "Sorry, what," he says again, this time in a kinder tone, knowing his teammate is waiting for an apology.

Marcelo laughs. "Look man, I'm sorry to wake you. I assume I did, anyways," he says as Cristiano grumbles slightly. "But... I gotta ask you." He pauses and lowers his tone. "Um, I mean, it's not really my business, but you let Leo know you weren't coming last night, right?"

Cristiano's still half asleep, but he props his pillows behind his back and sits up. "I'm sure I did," he says, rubbing his eyes and squinting as he tries to remember. "At some point." He leans back, mouth dry, wishing he had a bottle of water within reach. "Before that long-ass dinner, I think."

Marcelo laughs again. "Ok, good, yeah, that's what I thought," he says. "I thought it was nothing, but it's just, Leo posted this weird message on Facebook? Obviously a mistake, you know, maybe it wasn't even him, maybe it was his people or whatever, but I just wanted to make sure it wasn't meant for you."

Cristiano frowns. "What did it say?" he asks, putting Marcelo on speakerphone and then opening his Facebook app and going to Leo's page. "I'm looking for it now, but I don't see anything he posted."

"Yeah, he deleted it pretty soon after. It was pretty obvious it was a mistake. But it said **where were you**," Marcelo replies. "It just made me wonder if he meant to text you, or whatever. But if you told him you weren't coming, then it must have been for someone else. One of his teammates, probably."

Cristiano stares at Leo's profile picture. "I'm sure I told him," he says, thinking hard. "It kept getting later and later, and I'm sure I texted him and told him." He remembers being about to as they were going into the restaurant, his phone had been in his hand and he'd... "I must have."

But...

Fuck.

"Hold on." He opens his messages. He's got a thousand notifications, but Leo's name and their conversation is right near the top. And then Cristiano's heart sinks as he looks down at five texts. One after another. All unanswered.

He grips his phone harder, kicking himself. How could he not have sent Leo a message?!

He feels awful. Especially seeing all the times Leo tried to text him. God, why did he have his texts on vibrate. If only Leo had just called him...

A thought occurs to him and he goes to his voicemail.

"Oh no, no, no, no," he mutters, seeing one from Leo.

He stares at it, biting his lip, heart aching, as he realizes that mistaken Facebook post *was* for him. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as Marcelo, confused, calls his name. "I didn't tell him," Cris whispers, feeling a lump in his throat. "And I--fuck, I didn't notice, but he kept texting me to check on me, and he called me, which he hates doing, and I still didn't answer..."

Marcelo's quiet on the other end for a moment. "Cris," he eventually says. "You should call him. Right now. I'm going to hang up and you're going to call him, okay?"

Cristiano rubs his hand over his eyes. "He doesn't like to talk on the phone," he says, more to himself than to Marcelo, trying to figure out what to do--

"It doesn't fucking matter," Marcelo says, interrupting him. "This is, shit, man, you screwed up. The last thing I want is for Barcelona to win today, but do you realize what you've done? How much this might have messed him up? If you don't try to fix this, and then they lose..." Marcelo sighs. "You think he'll forgive you after that?"

Cristiano thunks his head back against the wall. "I'll call him," he says, still unable to believe how he missed all of Leo's messages. "And... I should go over there. Right?" He throws off his covers and then sits on the side of the bed. "Wait. Should I go over there?" he asks, reaching over and fastening his watch onto his wrist.

"You should call him," Marcelo repeats. "I don't know what else you should do. But call him, first. Okay?" When Cristiano sighs, Marcelo mutters something rude and then hangs up.

Cristiano throws the phone on the bed and stands up. He dresses himself in new clothing quickly, buttoning up a white dress shirt over dark jeans. As he's standing in front of the closet, trying to figure out what jacket he wants, he runs his fingers through his hair and pulls on some of the strands in frustration.

It doesn't matter what fucking jacket he chooses.

All he can think of is Leo.

Cristiano is so unbelievably disappointed in himself.

He can't believe what he's done.

He closes his closet in disgust and sits back down on the bed. He grabs his phone and calls Leo, not wanting to put it off any longer. He starts trying to figure out what to say--how to make this better. But it turns out that he doesn't need to know what to say, because the call goes to voicemail after only one ring.

He hangs up.

And he calls again.

The same thing happens.

His call is sent to voicemail.

Cristiano grits his teeth, knowing he's being punished. And he can't blame Leo for ignoring him, really he can't. After all, isn't that exactly what Cristiano did to Leo last night? Ignore his texts and his call?

Cristiano hangs up, unwilling, or unable to leave a voicemail saying everything that he wants to say. He forgets about calling and starts texting.

**leo, Oh Leo**

**please pick up, I need to talk to you**

**i can explain**

Cristiano shakes his head, knowing he doesn't have any good excuses. And that's the worst part about this. God, he wishes his phone had died, or he'd left it in his locker. That would be easier to explain. But missing all those messages? How can explain to Leo that this was all just an accident? How, every time Leo texted, Cristiano must have been distracted? How, when Cristiano found out he had to go to dinner, he'd been about to text Leo, but didn't? How, when Leo called, somebody else must have been holding Cristiano's phone?

It sounds feeble, even without voicing it, but Cristiano doesn't have any other answers.

But he needs to make this right, needs to explain to Leo that he would never intentionally ignore him or hurt him.

He thought he would *never* hurt him.

**i didn't see any of your messages until this morning**

**i'll come over right now, I need to see you, what's your room number**

When the little bubbles appear, signaling that Leo's typing, Cristiano breathes a sigh of relief. He waits eagerly, and whatever smile has appeared on his face dims at Leo's response: **I'm turning off the phone.**

Cristiano stares at those words.

**no please Leo** he writes hastily, heart beating as he waits for a response, **let me come** and then **please Leo** again, desperate.

But there's no response.

He feels a prickling in his eyes and the words start to blur, but Cristiano refuses to look away, trying to come up with something he can write even though he knows it's too late and Leo has turned it off. But his fingers are frozen, his mind whirling as he imagines Leo's hurt and disappointment on the other end. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs, as the screen eventually fades to black.

His cheeks are wet.

For the rest of the day, Cristiano feels like he's moving in slow motion.

He goes downstairs and eats. Not because he's hungry, but because it's the day after a match and he has to take care of himself. But his food is tasteless, and he has to force himself to swallow bite after bite. His fork feels like it weighs a ton, and each time he picks it up he has to use more and more of his strength. In the end, he eats very little before he pushes his plate away in disgust.

He decides to do a light workout.

He swims in his pool, lap after lap in the cool water until his mind is numb. When he's tired, exhaustion setting in, he gets out and puts his sneakers on. He intends to run until his lungs give out, but his knee throbs angrily with each step and eventually he gives up. He walks on the treadmill instead to pass the time.

Because that's what he's doing.

Trying to pass the time. Until the Barcelona game.

Halfway through the day, he has a thought. He calls Gerard Piqué.

Piqué answers on the first ring. "Hey! What a game yesterday. Congrats, man," Piqué says, sounding happy. "I hope we don't get you in the next round. I not ready for another clásico so soon!" There's a bit of background music before it's cut off.

Cristiano clears his throat. "Thanks," he says, trying to smile. In all honesty, he had forgotten about his game, forgotten his hat trick, forgotten that he'd helped push Real Madrid into the next round. "Listen," he starts uneasily, wondering if he should work his way up to Leo. But then he decides to stop wasting time and just get right to it. "Is, uh, Leo around? I can't get ahold of him, and I was thinking maybe I'd come over."

Piqué hums. "Listen Cris, now isn't really a good time," he says, sounding a little strange. It's hard to tell over the phone, but his cheerfulness seems to disappear. "I don't think that's a good idea."

It makes Cristiano wonder if Leo is there. Or if Leo's told Piqué what happened.

"Just for a little bit," Cristiano begs, nervously walking back and forth. He feels like he's going to wear a path into his floor, but he can't stop pacing. "I really need to see him."

Needs to see him.

Needs to talk to him.

Needs to hold him.

He tries to remember to breathe when Piqué hesitates.

"Sorry, Cris," Piqué says and Cristiano sighs, disappointed. "Come after the game, alright? I'm sure he'd be happy to see you then." There's some more music in the background and then Piqué laughs. "I'll see you tonight, okay? Gotta go!"

Cristiano mumbles goodbye and hangs up. Then he goes back to trying to figure out how to kill time. He watches tv, puts on some mindless movie, signs a pile of shirts for the club. It's monotonous, his marker moving over the jerseys over and over again, and he does it until he's made his way through the stack. The air smells from the marker, and he crinkles his nose, mildly irritated.

He calls his mother, but ends the call quickly when she notices something is wrong.

After that, he wanders around the house. He does paperwork that he's been putting off, looks at sketches of clothing that he's supposed to approve of, writes letters to some lucky fans. He almost goes online and watches videos on YouTube, but as soon as he opens the app, he's bombarded by suggestions that involve Leo.

Instead he takes a nap.

He doesn't dream.


	5. Chapter 5

Cristiano carefully doesn't look at Marcelo as the final whistle blows. 

Around them, Cristiano's teammates are screaming with excitement as Atlético knocks out Barcelona. But Marcelo is quiet. 

Cristiano is too. 

When he'd arrived at Sergio's, where they'd gathered to watch, Marcelo had raised an eyebrow--silently asking if things were okay. Cristiano had ducked his head, lips pressed together in a line, and Marcelo had put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. "I'm going to go over after the game," Cristiano had muttered quietly. "Leo turned off his phone, but I talked to Piqué." Marcelo had nodded approvingly, and that had been the end of it.

But as the game progressed, Cristiano's nerves began to fray. And he knew, as time ticked away, that there wasn't going to be a good result.

And now it's over. And Barcelona's out. And Cristiano wonders if he's partly to blame.

He doesn't know why his teammates are celebrating so much anyway. Atlético isn't a team he wants to face in the next round. Everyone in Spain knows how difficult they are to play. Truthfully, he *might* have preferred playing Barcelona. They're easier to crack than Atlético.

Doesn't matter now. Atlético is in and Barcelona is out.

And once again, Cristiano must wait. He hangs out for awhile, eating with the team, pretending to laugh as the conversation drifts. When they start talking about the champions league again, Cristiano decides enough time has passed. He fakes a smile and leaves, his mind more on meeting up with Leo than the next game he's going to be playing. 

Piqué texts him in the car--**he's terribly depressed, I'm sure he'd love for you to come** and **we're hanging in room 513**--which makes Cristiano realize that Piqué probably has no idea of what's happened between him and Leo. He doubts Piqué would be so welcoming if he did.

Cristiano doesn't feel the need to enlighten him.

He drives like a madman over to the hotel, finding the VIP entrance and handing off his keys immediately. There look to be a bunch of Barcelona fans crowded up near the door (along with a few taunting Madrid fans), but Cristiano is somehow able to sneak inside without drawing any attention to himself. It's not until he's on the elevator that Cristiano's realizes he still has no idea what he's going to say to Leo when he sees him.

Security stops him the second the doors open, and despite recognizing him, they make him text Piqué to come get him. It only takes a minute, and then the defender is there, tugging his arm. "Everyone is a little on edge," Piqué mutters, hugging him and then pulling him down the hall. "And Leo's been miserable. Well, we all are. But you know what he's like." Here and there, doors are propped open, but instead of hearing music or the tv, it's mostly silent. Cristiano catches a glimpse of Bravo and Ter Stegen talking in one room, and Lucho and Iniesta with their heads together in another.

At 513, Piqué knocks. "Dani's room," he says warningly, as if he's trying to prepare Cristiano.

It doesn't matter, though. 

Because Cristiano's already mentally freaking out. His hands are shaking at his sides, and he forces himself to breathe. He doesn't know what he's going to do, or say. What he does know, though, is that he's going to try to get Leo to go back to his room where they can be alone. He doesn't want to have this whole conversation in front of the Barcelona players.

Mascherano opens the door. As Piqué takes a step forward, Cristiano starts to follow, only coming to a halt when Mascherano doesn't move out of the way. "What the fuck is he doing here?" Mascherano growls out, eyes never leaving Cristiano's face.

Piqué looks from Mascherano to Cristiano and then back at Mascherano again. "He's here to see Leo," Piqué says, looking confused. "I told him to come." When Mascherano doesn't move, Piqué coughs. "Um, Masche," he says, leaning in, "you know about him and Leo, right?"

Mascherano makes a noise of disgust. "Oh, I know," he says, tilting his chin up. "I know everything about it." His eyes darken with anger and he crosses his arms. For a small man, he seems to take up an awfully large amount of space in the doorway.

Cristiano grits his teeth.

Because he's getting in there.

One way or another.

Piqué shakes his head. "Don't be like that, Masche. Leo will want to see him, you know that." He puts a hand on Mascherano's shoulder. "Cristiano said he couldn't get ahold of Leo earlier," he says, squeezing. "You know why. But I'm sure Leo will be happy he's here... Come on, let us in." 

Mascherano scoffs. "Sure, I'll let him in," he says, face smoothing out. He lets Piqué by and then says, "and he can explain to all of us why he stood Leo up last night."

Piqué stops moving and turns back, peering down at Mascherano. "What?" he says flatly. Dani Alves and Arda Turan are suddenly there behind him, drawn by the noise. They're frowning at Cristiano. "Cris?" Piqué says, all of his cheerfulness gone. "You--were you supposed to come last night?"

Cristiano tries not to cringe, but a guilty look must appear on his face.

"Is this why Leo didn't eat dinner?" Piqué demands, hitting Masche's arm. "Because he was waiting for *him*?" 

Cristiano inhales sharply, horrified that Leo didn't eat because he was waiting. 

He'd gone to a fancy dinner, and Leo hadn't eaten anything?

Behind Piqué, Alves is whispering something to Turan. "And, and, this morning--his shoes, his key--he was downstairs... Did he wait downstairs *all night*?!" Piqué's voice starts getting louder and louder, until he's pushing Cristiano back into the hallway and away from the door. "What the hell, Cris?"

Cristiano backs up. "It was an accident," he says, trying to explain. "I couldn't get away--you know how it is after a big win! The club made me go to dinner, but I would have much rather been with Leo. You know that! You know how important he is to me." 

Alves laughs, but it's not a kind sound. "Yeah," he says, "looked like you were having a real awful time. You know there are pictures of your dinner everywhere, right?" He holds up his phone, where on the screen is a picture of Cristiano laughing with Gareth and James. "You and James look awful chummy there." His eyes darken. "Maybe you didn't come last night because you had somebody else in your bed." 

Pique's eyes widen, and Turan whispers something to Alves in admonishment.

Cristiano remembers the moment the picture was taken, when James had made some terrible joke, and he couldn't help laughing. And James had grabbed Cristiano and whined about how it wasn't an awful joke, and Cristiano had hugged him and patted his head. 

But to imply that Cristiano would ever--

Cristiano points at Alves, finger shaking with rage. "Fuck you," he spits out. "Don't you *ever* fucking accuse me of cheating, Alves!" He's so angry he can't even see straight. He almost plows through Piqué and Mascherano in the doorway to get at Alves, but realizes he's outnumbered and doesn't move. "I made a mistake last night. I meant to tell Leo I couldn't make it--I had my phone in my hand to text him and I got distracted." 

He drops his hand and it clenches into a fist at his side. 

"That's on me," Cristiano admits, feeling shame curl up inside him again. "That's my fault, and I can't go back and change things..." He shakes his head, looking at the floor. He wishes he could, God, he wishes he could go back and text Leo. But what's done is done. "And I'll tell that to Leo when you all let me see him," he says pointedly. 

When Alves opens his mouth to say something more, Cristiano bares his teeth, "But don't you dare accuse me of cheating. James is a kid. A friend. A teammate. That's it. Never in my entire life have I ever cheated on someone. I would never do that... I messed up in forgetting to text Leo. That's it." 

Piqué is muttering something under his breath, looking unbelievably disappointed. "I can't believe you stood him up, Cris. He told me how much he was looking forward to seeing you this weekend." He shakes his head again. "But now? Maybe you should just go."

Mascherano speaks up, still glowering. "He was happy for you, you know. While we bitched about Real Madrid moving on, he was so happy for you. And he waited hours for you, Ronaldo. Think on that. He waited and waited and waited. While you were out partying, ignoring his texts and his calls." He crosses his arms. "You don't deserve him."

The silence builds after that, the Barcelona players forming a wall between Cristiano and the pathway into the hotel room.

He wants to get in there.

He needs to get in there.

"You think I don't know that," Cristiano finally says. He feels tired. He wants to scream that he doesn't owe any of them explanations, and to let him through the fucking door so he can apologize. "He's too good for me. He's always been too good for me. And he always will be." He looks at Piqué wearily. "But he's mine."

Mascherano shakes his head. "You're wrong," he says. "He's ours. And we'll take care of him now." Alves is smirking behind him, while Turan continues to lean against the door. "Go away before we call security to make you."

"I'm not leaving," Cristiano says, deadly serious, "until I talk to him."

For a moment, he thinks Mascherano is going to punch him.

But then there's movement behind Alves.

"What are you all--," Neymar says pushing through his teammates. "Oh." He stops and scratches his neck, his thin tank top hanging off his shoulders. "Luis said to shut up or shut the door. You're going to wake him up with all this noise." When none of them move, Neymar looks over them curiously. "What's the problem?"

Cristiano eyes him, wondering how much power Neymar has here. Probably none. "They won't let me in." He starts to plead his case, but Neymar waves a hand.

"Let him in," Neymar says, hitting Alves on the back of the head. 

Cristiano almost falls over in surprise.

Alves grabs at Neymar, but Mascherano turns to look at them. "You don't understand," Mascherano says dismissively. "Last night, he--," he says, before Neymar interrupts him.

"I know what happened," Neymar says suddenly. He pushes forward until he's past Alves. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his brightly colored, knee length sweatpants and looks at Mascherano, yawning. "Leo told me." Then he focuses on Cristiano again, trailing his gaze down Cristiano's body before looking back to Cristiano's face. 

Cristiano stares back, not sure what to say.

Neymar sighs. "I know what happened," he repeats, shifting his weight and drawing Cristiano's attention to the bag of ice taped to his ankle. It reminds him that all of the Barcelona players are exhausted and hurting from their loss against Atlético. "But I also know that Leo wants to see him tonight." 

Mascherano opens his mouth to argue, but Neymar shakes his head. "We're his friends, Masche. And we can try to protect him the best we can, but Leo wouldn't thank you for this." Neymar looks at Piqué and then Alves and Turan who are still crowded in the doorway. "Let him in. Let him apologize."

Cristiano's breath evens out and his heart stops beating so furiously. He's thanking Neymar with his eyes, when Neymar smiles at him.

"And then if Leo wants us to kick his ass, well, we can get to it," Neymar finishes, clapping Mascherano on the arm. He turns and shoves Alves and Turan away, following them back into the room, walking gingerly on his ankle. Mascherano gives Cristiano an ugly look before turning on his heel to join them. 

Piqué holds a hand out. "After you," he says, letting Cristiano by. "But seriously Cris," he says quietly as Cristiano passes him. "If you hurt him again, I. Will. Break. Your. Legs." His fingers squeeze Cristiano's arm. "Don't make me do that." Then he lets go and tilts his chin towards the room.


	6. The end (drabble epilogue coming soon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me guys. I have a tiny drabble epilogue from Leo's pov that I'll add as the 7th chapter, but this is pretty much the end. Xoxo

Mascherano is standing against the wall, arms crossed, looking like a pissed off bodyguard as Cristiano enters. The others have all returned to what look like their prior positions.

And Piqué brushes by Cristiano to do the same, sprawling out on the empty bed by the wall. The defender folds his hands behind his head, crosses his feet at the ankles, and watches Cristiano warily. Alves and Turan are sitting at a table by the widow, an iPad open to Parchis between them.

Neymar's on one side of the other bed, sitting on top of the rumpled covers with his foot propped up on a pillow. A half empty bottle of Gatorade is balanced on his knee and his gold phone is in his hand. He's sort of watching some movie on tv, but he keeps flicking his eyes over at Suárez. The number nine is on the other side of the bed, his knees bent and feet flat on the bed, brows furrowed as he stares up at Cristiano challengingly.

And there, sleeping between them, is Leo.

Cristiano bites his tongue to keep from saying something he shouldn't. But it's hard, knowing Alves was accusing him of cheating, yet here Leo is--pressed between two other men. He takes a deep breath at the sight. He reminds himself that it's nothing untoward, clearly for comfort and nothing more. 

And Cristiano's always known that Barcelona was a touchy-feely team. 

But it's still hard to see.

Suárez's arm is around Leo's body, fingers playing with Leo's hair, combing through the dark strands as if he has a right to. Leo is turned on his side and cuddled up to his teammate. His hand is clenched in Suárez's shirt, while his face is hidden in Suárez's neck. There's a blanket draped over his body, but Cristiano can see that Leo's shoulders are bare beneath it.

"So you're finally here," Suárez says. His fingers keep twirling though Leo's hair. "I suppose you'll want to wake him up and apologize now?" He doesn't make any attempt to lower his voice, yet Leo doesn't move at the sound.

Piqué grumbles. "Did everyone know but me? I wouldn't have told him to come if I'd known." He slouches down on the bed, frowning and staring at the ceiling.

"I hope you're prepared to grovel," mutters Alves at Cristiano from the corner, jabbing angrily at his iPad.

Cristiano ignores them all and takes a step closer to the bed. Then another, stepping over a few pairs of flip flops. As he gets closer to see Leo's face where it's tucked against Suárez's neck, he can see there are dark smudges beneath Leo's closed eyes. And there are fine lines across his forehead, his exhaustion evident to anyone who cares to look. His dark lashes flutter with every breath, while his pink lips are parted and stark against his pale skin.

Leo looks... He looks... Entirely worn out.

"Is he," Cristiano says, devastated, looking at Suárez. "Is he okay?" He leans over, hand hovering over Leo's cheek, wanting to smooth his fingers across that soft skin. But Leo looks so unlike himself, so tired, so fragile, that Cristiano pulls back. "I don't want to wake him up," Cristiano whispers, unable to look away from Leo's face.

"You're a fucking coward," Alves spits, standing up. "You're afraid he'll tell you to get out." Mascherano rumbles something unintelligible in agreement, uncrossing his arms and cracking his knuckles.

"Dani," Neymar says warningly, "stop." He glances at Mascherano who ignores him. Then he stares at Alves until the other man withers and sits down, glaring. Neymar gives Alves another stern look and the defender sighs, returning to his game. Neymar nods, satisfied, fingers tapping his phone against his knee thoughtfully before returning his gaze to Cristiano. 

"It's not that," Cristiano says, still looking at Leo. "It's not." He reaches out and adjusts the blanket so it covers Leo's shoulder. "But I think..." he says, watching how Leo doesn't even stir at all. "He looks so tired. I--I can't bear it." He trails off, heart aching for Leo, wanting so much to make those dark shadows under his eyes go away.

All Cristiano can think is that he's partially responsible. He takes a step back.

Suárez meets his gaze. "He would want you to wake him up," Suárez says quietly, tilting his head to the side. His fingers still in Leo's hair, hand gently resting on Leo's head.

It makes Cristiano angry. 

To see this man touching Leo so freely. 

To hear him talk about knowing what Leo would want. 

"What do you know about it?" Cristiano snaps, beyond frustrated, getting louder without meaning to. He regrets the outburst immediately, and looks at Leo in concern. But Leo still doesn't wake up, and all Cristiano feels is despair. He finds himself clenching his fists again and knows the time has come for him to leave. He's not getting anywhere, and he doesn't want to breakdown in front of these people. 

Doesn't want them to see him cry.

"More than you, apparently," Neymar says suddenly. He puts his phone on the side table and then reaches down and takes the bag of ice off his leg. After prodding at his ankle, he shrugs. He tosses the ice on the floor carelessly, ignoring the loud splat it makes, and then he props another pillow behind his back. "So I'm going to do you a favor," he continues, taking a swig of his Gatorade and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He grins, showing his pointy teeth.

And then, before Cristiano has a chance to react, Neymar shifts over and tugs on Leo's hair. "Wake up, sleepy head," Neymar says lazily, letting go of the lock of hair only to scratch his nails over Leo's scalp.

Leo's eyes slit open and he makes a questioning sound. His hand releases Suárez's shirt, grabbing it once more in confusion, before letting go again. He rubs his face, yawning. Then he slowly starts to sit up, the blanket sliding down his body as he moves. It pools around his waist, exposing his bare chest, goosebumps appearing immediately as he shivers. He sways, dazed, still facing Suárez.

Suárez sits up too, his toothy smile appearing as he reaches his hand behind Leo and in Neymar's direction. The Brazilian winks and wordlessly passes over his open Gatorade, which Suárez sticks in front of Leo's face.

"Thank you," Leo murmurs, seemingly half asleep, as he accepts the sports drink and takes a gulp. Behind him, Neymar and Suárez thump a few pillows into position. Leo drains the drink thirstily, eyes closing again as he leans back against pillows now supporting his side, still facing Suárez. When he's finished the bottle, he opens his eyes slightly. "Can you--is there?" he says, and Suárez nods, taking the empty bottle from Leo's hand.

"Arda," Neymar calls, sitting up and making a grabbing motion. 

Cristiano watches as Turan reaches into the mini fridge by his feet, pulling out two new Gatorades. Turan wavers, eventually putting the blue back and then holding the red up questioningly. When Neymar nods approvingly, Turan throws it toward the bed. Neymar catches the bottle easily, taking off the cap and handing the drink to Suárez, who holds it steady and closes Leo's fingers around it. "Thanks," Leo says, taking a gulp.

It's all so... Choreographed. 

Effortless. 

Knowing. 

Like they're a hive mind.

Fucking ridiculous.

It just reminds Cristiano once more that he doesn't really belong here. Doesn't fit in with these Barcelona players and whatever weird mind reading spectrum they're on. 

He unintentionally takes another step back.

The movement draws Leo's attention. 

Leo freezes, midsip, bottle in his hand. After a beat, he swallows what's in his mouth and lowers the drink. His lips are wet, reddened from the Gatorade, and he licks them absentmindedly, staring at Cristiano. His eyes are wide with surprise, but then his mouth stretches into a sweet smile. "You're here," he says softly, pleased, clutching the blanket at his waist with his free hand.

Cristiano releases whatever breath he was holding. He can feel the tightness in his chest lessen, eased by the joyful look on Leo's face.

"I'm here," Cristiano answers, almost stretching out a hand to Leo before realizing they're not alone. And he's reminded of that as Suárez slings an arm around Leo's shoulders. 

Leo realizes it, too. And seems to remember the reason Cristiano's here. His eyes sweep around the room, over at Piqué, Mascherano, and then over at Alves and Turan. He looks down to either side of himself, where Suárez is pressed to his right, and Neymar is sprawled to his left. Then he stares back at Cristiano, sinking back into the pillows and relaxing into Suárez's embrace.

Cristiano wonders if it's meant as punishment. Because then, Leo's smile slips away and he just looks exhausted again. "I didn't think you would come," Leo says, taking another sip of his drink.

He really doesn't sound angry or upset. 

He just sounds tired. 

Cristiano sighs. "I'm so sorry, Leo. I--I don't know what happened. I don't know how I missed all of your messages." He watches as Leo blinks up at him expressionlessly. "And then, I was going to text you that I couldn't make it, but I got distracted again. I'm just," he says, looking down and shaking his head, "I'm just so sorry." He looks pleadingly up at Leo, begging him to accept his apology.

Leo shifts, shivering, and Cristiano dismisses it as a nervous tick. But then Neymar reaches over to pull the blanket up over Leo's body a little, and Cristiano realizes once more, how in tune Leo's teammates are in with his needs. 

"Didn't you want to see me?" Leo asks, fingers twisting the material of the blanket. "Where were you?" He's biting his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth so much that Cristiano is afraid he's doing himself harm. And he looks down at his lap as if he's the one who's done something wrong.

Cristiano winces, thinking again of the message that Leo had mistakenly posted on Facebook. "I did Leo, I did want to see you. I always want to see you! After our win, though, I had to go to dinner with the club. It's just Pérez and the press and Zidane... I promise I wanted to see you, and I tried to get away, and I just couldn't. I'm so sorry." 

Leo sighs. "You made me promises before, Cristiano. You promised me you'd come." He hesitates. "And I waited." He keeps looking down, unable to look Cristiano in the eye. "I waited a long time." His fingers squeeze the fabric under his hand, knuckles clenching so hard they turn white.

Cristiano's heart *aches*. 

"Leo," Cristiano says, knowing his voice is breaking. "When I woke up this morning, and I realized what I'd done--when I realized I'd forgotten to text you," he stops, closing his eyes. "I was so ashamed. Because I fucked up, and I left you waiting. I hurt you. And I never want to hurt you." He takes a deep breath and looks at Leo again. "I'm so sorry. I can't say it enough, but I'll say it until you believe me. Until you forgive me." 

He doesn't care that he's saying this now front of Leo's friends. In front of a smirking Alves, and that infuriating Suárez.

He may be ashamed of what he's done. 

But he'll never be ashamed of his feelings for Leo.

Even if he's ruined everything.

His mind is scrambling to figure out how he can salvage this, what else he can do to get Leo to forgive him. But all he can think is that it might be over--he might have destroyed the best thing that ever happened to him...

"Okay," Leo says, cutting into his thoughts.

Cristiano looks up at him miserably, not understanding. "Okay, what?" he asks.

Mascherano hisses through his teeth. "*Leo*, no." He steps away from the wall. "Don't--," he says, looking like he's a combination of worried and angry. Mostly angry. And at the table, Alves deliberately turns away and faces the window, shaking his head in disgust.

But Leo doesn't look at Mascherano. Or Alves. He looks at Cristiano, and that sweet smile is back. "Okay," he says softly. "I forgive you." 

Neymar and Suárez are exchanging glances over Leo's head, but neither of them seem surprised. Neymar even grins at Cristiano again.

"You forgive me," Cristiano repeats, unable to believe his ears. His heart is beating so fast that the sound of the whooshing of his blood fills his ears. He says it again, sounding like an idiot, but unable to believe it. "You forgive me."

Leo blinks at him, looking tired again. "I forgive you," he says quietly. "Of course I forgive you." Leo opens his mouth to say more and then pauses, turning his head to look at Suárez. Suárez looks back at him, arching an eyebrow in question, but then nods. Leo smiles in reply, eyes shining as he turns back to Cristiano. "I love you."

If Cristiano weren't so overjoyed, he'd probably be wondering how the fuck those two had a whole conversation without saying anything... But he's too euphoric to care. 

"And you love me," Leo says, while Cristiano nods wholeheartedly. Neymar laughs, muttering something into Leo's ear. Leo squirms in response, blushing, and Neymar laughs again--this time loudly. He dissolves into giggles, hiding his mouth against Leo's shoulder. Suárez grins knowingly on Leo's other side, grabbing Leo's sports drink as the bed shakes from Neymar's movement.

"Oh my god, Leo," Piqué says, rolling from his back to his stomach and resting his head on his crossed arms. "Get a room already." He waggles his eyebrows at Leo, smiling. "All this racket is distracting... We were watching a movie, you know. It was so much better when you were sleeping," he says teasingly, though his gaze is nothing but fond.

"Maybe when you leave," Alves says loudly, focusing on the game he's playing with Turan, "you can take the trash out with you." Turan nudges him, but Alves determinedly does not look up.

Cristiano doesn't even care. He can't stop smiling.

"Don't forget," Turan speaks up in a thick accent, seemingly taken aback when all eyes go to him. He pauses, gesturing awkwardly to a small black bag next to him on the table. "It's time, no?" He looks at his watch and then over at Leo, concerned. "Don't forget," he repeats, flicking his eyes at Cristiano.

"Oh," Leo says, "yes, thank you, Arda." He struggles to sit up, pushing Neymar's head away while Suárez reluctantly moves his arm. "Let me out," he says, dropping the blanket and poking Neymar in the side. While Neymar's getting up, Leo stills. He tosses the blanket away, revealing a heating pad strapped to his waist.

"Are you alright?" Cristiano asks, his giddiness disappearing. 

"Yes," Leo says, not looking at him, turning off the heat and unwrapping the fabric. His belly is pink from the heat, and he knee-walks carefully off the bed, almost losing his low-slung sweatpants in the process. When he's standing, he raises his arms to stretch, hands going to his lower back. Then he wiggles his toes, drawing attention to his bare feet. The left is taped up. "Just, you know," he says, and Cristiano thinks he means the normal aches from playing.

Except then Suárez tattles. "He passed a stone earlier." He takes a sip of Leo's Gatorade, looking unruffled as Leo shoots him a mean look. Neymar dives into the bed again, tucking his good foot under Suárez's thigh and grabbing Leo's blanket to spread it out over his bad one.

"I'm fine," Leo says, ignoring the snort from Mascherano in the corner. He keeps his hand on his back, though, as he walks over to Cristiano. "I'm fine," he says softly, stretching again before sliding his hands up Cristiano's chest and linking them behind Cristiano's neck.

Cristiano gently smooths his hands through Leo's hair, cradling his head. "You're not fine," he says, kissing Leo's forehead, speaking quickly when Leo tries to protest. "You forget," he says, leaning back to meet Leo's gaze. "I've seen you go through that before. I know how much that hurts you." He hesitates. "And then you played? Leo, you shouldn't have done that." He lightly skims his thumb across Leo's bottom lip.

Leo's eyes drift closed for a second, body arching into the touch. Then he opens them, and Leo cocks his head. "Are you saying you wouldn't have done the same thing?" He searches Cristiano's face, obviously ready to call him a liar.

Cristiano laughs. "Maybe," he admits, brushing his nose against Leo's and then pulling back. "Maybe not." He plays with Leo's hair, unable to stop touching him. "Doesn't mean it isn't stupid. And that we shouldn't go back to your room and have you rest." He slides his hands down the back of Leo's neck, thumbs stroking Leo's throat, watching as Leo swallows.

Leo sighs and nods, leaning into Cristiano. "Okay," he says, as Cristiano rests his hands on Leo's waist. He turns and looks over his shoulder at Turan.

Turan jumps up, grabbing the black bag and handing it to Leo with a smile. Cristiano can hear the sound of pill bottles clattering together, and he smiles at Turan in thanks. The Turk bows his head and returns to his seat.

Cristiano surveys the rest of the room, finding himself grinning at Neymar who sticks out a tongue in reply. He nods at Suárez, and then at Piqué and Mascherano. The latter ignores him, gaze firmly fixed on Leo. 

And Cristiano doesn't bother with Alves.

Only Piqué gets up to actually say goodbye to Leo. The rest of them just wave lazily. "Make sure you actually get some rest," Piqué says to Leo, tugging on an ear before kissing the top of his head. He looks warningly at Cristiano who tilts his head in agreement. "And keep drinking."

Leo smiles, brushing off his friend and taking Cristiano's hand. He heads for the hallway, bare feet padding soundlessly on the carpet, pulling Cristiano after him.

Before they leave though, Mascherano is there again, holding open the door. "You're sure, Leo?" he asks, still focused on Leo, hip resting against the doorway. "We can find you someone better." He sounds entirely confident, ignoring the groans coming from the rest of his teammates.

"Give it up, Masche," Neymar calls. "And Dani, stop sulking. Come give me a back rub--no, right now, mister!" Whatever else is said is drowned out by laughter and the sound of the tv volume increasing.

"No, you can't," Cristiano answers Mascherano, a spark of anger flickering though him now that he knows he has Leo back. He opens his mouth, finally ready to tell Leo's friend to fuck off. Honestly, he's too tired to worry about Leo's reaction.

But Leo squeezes his hand and Cristiano falls silent.

"No, you can't," Leo repeats, fingers linked with Cristiano's. He leans over and kisses Mascherano on the cheek. "But thank you," he says softly.

Mascherano sighs and returns the kiss. "Then, goodnight, Leo. If you need me, you know where to find me." He doesn't look at Cristiano, turning on his heel to return to the room. 

Leo lets himself be pulled into Cristiano's body. He shivers and then snuggles under the arm that wraps carefully around his shoulders, and sighs with contentment. They slowly walk down the hallway that way, the only sound being the noise of the pills in Leo's bag. When they reach Leo's door, Leo fishes his key out of his pocket. 

Cristiano stands behind him, hands sliding over Leo's chest, smoothing over that flat stomach, toying with Leo's waistband. He buries his nose in Leo's hair and inhales deeply as Leo unlocks the door. "Thank you," he whispers, feeling so unbelievably lucky to be standing here with Leo in his arms.

Leo pushes the door open and turns to face Cristiano. "For what?" he asks, looking both happy and tired, eyes bright despite the shadows underneath them.

Cristiano takes Leo's hand again. This time, he turns it over and presses a kiss to the palm. "For being you," he says unable to explain it, unable to speak the thought that he was worried he'd ruined everything. He lets his lips linger and is pleased to see Leo blush. 

Leo laughs, cheek pink. And then pulls him inside the hotel room.

The door clicks closed behind them.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo's energy disappears the second he sees the bed. "I," he says weakly, walking towards it, already anticipating the softness of the mattress. "I'm so tired," he admits, sitting down and facing Cristiano. "I'm sorry, I wanted to celebrate with you," he says, fingers still tangled with Cristiano's. "But I'm so tired."
> 
> He's exhausted really.
> 
> Playing Atlético is always exhausting, but playing after the day he'd had...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always meant for the epilogue to be short, and it is. Hope you still like it.

Leo's energy disappears the second he sees the bed. "I," he says weakly, walking towards it, already anticipating the softness of the mattress. "I'm so tired," he admits, sitting down and facing Cristiano. "I'm sorry, I wanted to celebrate with you," he says, fingers still tangled with Cristiano's. "But I'm so tired."

He's exhausted really.

Playing Atlético is always exhausting, but playing after the day he'd had...

Cristiano sinks to his knees in front of Leo. "Then we'll sleep," he says quietly, leaning into Leo's space. But it’s comforting, and as always, feels like the best thing ever. And truthfully, Cristiano is welcome in Leo’s space anytime. Especially since he skims his other hand up Leo's ribcage and then cups the back of his neck. "That's enough for me, Leo. Just being here with you is enough.” Cristiano rests his head on Leo’s chest, breathing him in. “God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn't here last night... But I'm here now."

Leo leans into the touch, closing his eyes. Cristiano's hand is so warm on his neck, and he can't help shivering at the contrasting cold air of the room. “Cristiano,” he says, unable to put his thoughts into words, squeezing Cristiano’s hand at his side. There’s so much he wants to say, but he’s too tired now.

It can wait.

Cristiano clucks his tongue and lets go of Leo's hand, somehow wordlessly understanding. He goes over and adjusts the temperature, nodding when the heat kicks in. When he returns to the bed, he kneels back down. “We can talk more tomorrow, okay, sweetheart? Let's get you into bed, hmm?" His hands lightly rest on Leo's waist, ready to help him undress. "Want these off?"

Leo's still cold so he shakes his head, opening his eyes despite how heavy they are. Even the smallest movement makes him ache again, and he looks over to where his medication is. "I need to take my pills," he says wearily, mentally cataloging where he hurts. He's so tired of taking painkillers, but he knows his body needs them. Especially if he wants to sleep through the night.

Cristiano nods. He looks sad, and Leo wishes that he wouldn’t. They’re together now, and there’s nothing more to worry about. But then Cristiano’s hands thumb Leo's hips and slide around to rest against his back. "You have to take care of yourself," Cristiano says, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on Leo's stomach again. His warm breath puffs out against Leo's skin. “Need to drink more. Eat more. Sleep more.”

Leo looks down, surprised at the sudden turn, and hugs Cristiano. He combs his fingers through Cristiano's hair, enjoying the feeling. "I'm alright," he protests, sighing when he feels Cristiano's lips press a light kiss to his belly.

He's alright now that Cristiano's here with him.

Cristiano shakes his head, nosing at Leo's stomach again. "Better care then," he says against Leo's body, gently kissing on either side of Leo's belly button, right above the waistband of his sweatpants. "Take better care," he whispers, finally leaning back to look Leo in the eyes.

"I will," Leo promises, knowing that it might be hard.

But he can try. He can try for this man kneeling before him.

This man that he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it took me so long to post the epilogue, but this is always how I wanted to end it. Hope you enjoyed this story :) It was probably one of my more angsty fics--but hey, what was I supposed to do when Leo posted that strange facebook message?? xo


End file.
